


tumblr drabbles

by alexanger



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i've been doing a drabble thing so i'm just putting em all here once they're done! enjoy. [note: i am aware drabbles are 100 words or so but i set myself a limit of 300-500 because ... me ... sticking to 100 words? nah]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3. “Please, don’t leave.”

Dear “General” Washington:

Your childish charade has gone far enough. You may dress up in your silly little uniforms and parade about all you like, but at your core you will never change what you are: You are mine, and you will continue to be until the day you die. I hear that you have had some minor successes here and there, but ultimately, we are far greater than you will hope to ever be. In essence, you are garbage and I hate you and I hope you have a very bad day tomorrow.

You will be displeased to know that everything is absolutely peachy over here in merry old England. The weather is lovely and we have a lot of very nice food to eat, and every time I sit down to a meal I laugh about your poor army rations and the fact that no one will take your money. Ha ha! That’s what you get for trying to leave! Your money is worthless and so are you.

You still haven’t responded to any of my previous letters, which is just plain rude. You show absolutely no tact or sensitivity, which proves that you are a bad General and I am going to assume that, therefore, nobody listens to you. How does it feel to have an army of no-good scoundrels who won’t obey your command? Simply awful, I imagine. I imagine that you are suffering terribly and that brings me comfort. Please write back soon and confirm my suspicions. And if you don’t, I’ll just have you imprisoned. Well, I’ll have you imprisoned either way, but it can either be fairly unpleasant, or extremely unpleasant. Perhaps once you’ve been apprehended I’ll have you brought here so that I may make journeys to observe you in prison and then laugh at you.

Anyway, this is all just a note to say that I utterly despise you and that you are an awful person and I hope that you are stricken with dysentery very soon.

Fondest regards,

King George III

(PS please don’t leave.)


	2. 4. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

John kisses Alex hard and they fumble their way into the apartment. Something bumps against the back of Alex’s legs; that something turns out to be his couch, and they tumble onto it, John on top, his leg between Alex’s thighs.

There’s something desperate and heated in the kiss. Alex sighs into John’s mouth, exploring with his tongue. He’s spent far too long wondering how John would taste, how soft his lips would be - and now he’s here, up close, dazzled by freckles. He wonders just how much of John is covered in them.

Alex shrugs out of his shirt and slips his hands up under John’s. John slips out of his as well, and suddenly there’s a whole galaxy of freckles swirled over the knotted muscle Alex aches to touch. It’s overwhelming - it’s beautiful - and Alex murmurs, “you’re perfect,” and John laughs. His laugh is unfair.

They come together again, lips wet and swollen with kissing, and then Alex slips downwards and sucks a bruise into the tender skin just above John’s collarbone.

“I want to fuck you,” Alex breathes, and John stops.

“Uh -” He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “Look, shit, this is really awkward, but - I’m not really all that comfortable fucking on the first date. Like, you’re great, I like you a lot - and believe me, I’ve been thinking about, you know, this, for a really long time … but I’m just super not ready. Like, emotionally. Physically, yeah, but not emotionally.”

“Okay,” Alex says.

“I’m really sorry -”

“Why are you sorry?” Alex asks. “I got to kiss you a whole lot just now, and I get to look at how beautiful you are, and I get to spend time with you - all three of those are great. We can take things as slow as you need. However many dates you need to get there.”

“So there’s a second date, then?” John grins.

“And a third and a fourth and a fifth - as many as you want. So fucking is off the table. What do you want to do instead? What are you comfortable with?”

“Do you … well … I mean … I could give you a massage?”

Alex takes in the broad hands, the muscle beneath the freckles on John’s arms, and then John winks and he shudders. “I’d love that,” he says, and then John’s lips are on his again, and those strong hands slide under him, kneading into his back just hard enough to make him moan.


	3. 9. “Don’t you ever do that again!” / 43. “YOU DID WHAT?!”

Alex is vibrating when Eliza lets herself into their apartment. That’s hardly hyperbole, either - he’s jittering on the couch, bouncing both legs, rocking, and flittering his fingers as he stares at his laptop.

“What did you do?” Eliza asks, already thoroughly done with his shit.

“I may -” Alex says, “or I may not - have had a few too many Monsters.”

“Assuming, of course, that you did, how many is too many?”

Alex wriggles his head, and that turns into him swaying rapidly side to side while he clicks his tongue. “Six.”

“Six - six? _Six_? Six! Six Monsters -” Eliza drags her hands down her face. “Why are you _like_ this? Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” Alex says, “I’m golden, I’m great, feeling good, really good, feeling awesome except I’m super energy-energy and I keep trying to figure out what I should do but my hands are shaking too much to type so I can’t work on any of my papers or argue on the internet which is kind of annoying because there are so many words in my head that it kinda hurts so I decided to go for a walk but when I stood up I got really dizzy and my heart kinda felt like it was going way too fast and also trying to escape and that was fucking weird so I sat back down but now my legs won’t stop moving and I kinda feel like everything is spinning and also my head hurts but everything is great. I’m great! I’m awesome. Great. How are you?”

“I need a drink,” Eliza says. She drops her bag by the couch and walks into the kitchen, where she stops dead. The counter is inexplicably covered in salami, lettuce, and fragments of slices of bread, and cans of Monster are all over the floor.

She turns around and fixes Alex with a stern glare. “Don’t you _ever_ ,” she says slowly, “do that again.”

“I’m out of Monster anyway,” Alex says, and Eliza closes her eyes. 

 

* * *

 

Eliza’s phone rings while she’s on the train. It’s been a long day, and when she notices it’s Alex calling, she has to stifle a groan. He knows she’ll be home in half an hour; if he can’t wait til then, it’s not good news.

 She picks up, despite her instincts screaming at her not to.

“Hello?”

 “Hey,” says the voice on the other end. “Listen, can you pick me up some coffee and a few cans of Monster? The good kind, you know, Mad Dog - it’s purple and black and silver and gold and it tastes like pure purple condensed into a can and infused with -”

 “Didn’t you just buy a flat last week?” Eliza says, cutting him off. There’s an edge in his voice she doesn’t like - it’s too frantic, too hurried. It sounds very off in a way that’s familiar, but that she can’t quite place.

 “Yeah, but it’s gone. Anyway, coffee and Monster? That’ll get me through til tomorrow, I just have to finish another couple chapters and I can edit my novel and boy did you know you can write a whole novel in two weeks? I didn’t know! _Shit_! Listen, this is the next Harry Potter except it isn’t about some magical teenage asshole, it’s about real adult shit that real adults probably experience, not that I’d know, I’m like five years old. Anyway -”

“Alex.” Eliza’s voice is calm, somehow. “There are two dozen cans in a flat. You can’t have gone through twenty-four cans so fast. What did you do?”

“Nothing. I drank some Monster and wrote the rest of my novel except there’s a couple chapters left -”

 “How many Monsters did you drink? Please, please tell me you learned from last time. Please tell me you didn’t drink six.”

 “Of course I didn’t drink six.”

“Good, because the way you’re talking, I was really starting to worry you’d -”

“I drank eight.”

 “You did WHAT?!” she shrieks, and the person sitting next to her gets up and moves seats.

Alex is silent for a moment, aside from his rapid breathing. “Well,” he says at last. “It wasn’t six.”


	4. 11. “Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”

Hamilton crouches in the bushes. There’s a good three feet of snow on the ground, and it’s abominably cold; even with two sweaters under his coat, he’s shivering - but it’s about to be entirely worth it.

His hands pack the perfect snowball. He smooths it out and crunches it as firmly as he can, and then he waits, watching the door he knows Jefferson comes out of every day at 12:45 exactly. He’ll be on his way to lunch, frazzled with the morning’s work - he’ll be off his guard - it’s the perfect crime.

But Jefferson, as he leaves, looks around, and their eyes meet for a split second. Hamilton debates ducking into the bushes - but Jefferson calls, “Hamilton, what are you doing?” and he knows he’s lost the element of surprise.

He stands and cocks his arm back, and Jefferson, a split second too late, yells, “don’t you dare throw that snowba–”

It hits him in the face and he splutters through a mouthful of snow, “goddamnit!”

Hamilton is prepared for fury. He is not prepared for the way Jefferson scoops up a handful of snow and sprints towards him, scarf unwinding and flying loose. He’s caught, for a moment, by the sight of the scarf drifting to ground, and then snow hits him on the ear and he yelps with the blazing cold.

“Jefferson, you shitbag!” he shouts. “That’s freezing!”

Before he realizes what’s happening, Jefferson has caught him by the collar and is kissing him hard. He sinks into the kiss; just as he’s adjusted to the warmth of Jefferson’s body, the pressure of his lips, Jefferson moves and nips at his earlobe. The heat of his breath against his damp, frozen ear makes Hamilton shiver. Somewhere inside him, something blazes warm. “Jefferson,” Hamilton murmurs, clinging desperately to the front of Jefferson’s coat, “God, don’t stop that -”

And then Jefferson kicks his ankles out from under him and shoves his face into the snow.

“That’s what you get, asshole,” Jefferson says, rubbing snow into Hamilton’s hair. “Hope you learned your lesson.”

Jefferson hasn’t walked ten feet away before another snowball hits him square in the back of the head.


	5. 18. “This is without a doubt the worst plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”

John squints. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Don’t worry, it won’t work,” Eliza assures him.

“Of course it’ll work!” Alex insists. “Look. The office closes at six, and the building it’s in closes at nine, and they don’t have security. I called and asked.”

“Sneaky,” Eliza says, but she can’t hide a smile.

“So we just climb up the trellis -”

“- which will absolutely not support our weight,” John says, “and which I can’t do with my prosthetic -”

“- and onto the balcony -”

“Why does your chiropractor have a balcony?” Eliza asks.

“- and we steal my turtle from the pond.”

“This is without a doubt the worst plan you’ve ever had,” John says. “Of course I’m in.”

“Do I want to know why your chiropractor stole your turtle?” Eliza asks.

Alex swells with rage and John cuts in. “Believe me, you don’t want to ask that question.”

For the most part, Alex is silent, although he can’t help but mutter, “he’s not my chiropractor anymore. Dirty turtle thief.”

* * *

Alex and Eliza are the ones to climb the trellis, while John waits below. Eliza does the actual turtle grab; Alex, at the last moment, gets terrible anxiety, and thus convinces Eliza to become a horrible criminal on his behalf.

They climb back down and hand the turtle to John, who came prepared with a little carrier. As he puts the turtle in the carrier, he says, “hey, Alex, your turtle’s name was Howard, right?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “I named him when I was, like, sixteen, and I thought it was funny to give an animal a people name -”

“And you’re sure he was a male?”

“Long front claws, big tail - definitely a male.”

“Okay,” John says. “This isn’t your turtle.”

A light goes on in the office above them and all three of them panic. They run down the street, John vaulting with his cane to keep up. It isn’t until they’re three blocks away that they slow down enough to take another look at the turtle.

“This is a female,” John points out. “Look at her cloaca -”

“No thanks,” says Eliza.

Alex pouts. “Okay, so this isn’t Howard. We have to put her back.”

“No,” Eliza says firmly. “We are never doing that again. We’ve stolen a turtle, we are now thieves, and I don’t want to end up getting arrested for putting a turtle back. Live with it. This is our turtle now, Alex.”

Alex pouts, but John grins and hugs the carrier.

“I’m gonna name her Petunia,” he says.


	6. 19. “The paint’s supposed to go where?”

Eliza squints at the tarp laid flat on John’s living room floor. He’s moved all the furniture to the sides of the room; there’s just an expanse of floor covered by the huge white plastic tarp, where she sits cross-legged, taking in the paint by John’s feet.

“I mean, I’d settle for just Alex,” John is saying. “But ideally I’d like both of you.”

“And - the paint’s supposed to go where?”

“Uh, everywhere. It’s body paint,” Alex says from his reclined position on the tarp. He’s shamelessly naked, although he still holds his arms close to his chest, near the livid raised scars dashed under each pectoral.

“Is that safe?” Eliza asks.

“It’s body paint,” John echoes, like that answers the question.

“Can I watch? Just to see what it looks like on Alex?”

“Yes, of course,” John says, picking up his brush.

He covers Alex’s back in rich blue, the colour of the sky after the sun sets but before full dark. He layers paint on top of that - darker blues, lighter blues, swirls of white that become the tips of waves below and galaxies above. Alex transforms under his hands; and when his back is a masterpiece, John turns him and creates a universe on the front as well. A garden blossoms from the tips of his brushes; wisteria trails along the raised scars on his chest and cascades almost to the pond that sits between his hips, hugging the outward curve of his abdomen.

It’s undeniably beautiful - but still more beautiful is the look of complete surrender on Alexander’s face. He twists and turns his body as John desires, parting his thighs, lifting his arms, tilting his chin up to let John paint his throat.

The intimacy makes her heart ache. Alex is covered head to toe in paint - there’s the barest hint of water but he’s almost entirely sky and greenery.

She licks her lips and tries to speak, but her voice is cracked - she’s parched, seeking the fluid intimacy between her boys.

“I think - I’d like to try,” she tells John, and he turns to look at her, his eyes clear and cool like the bottle-green depths of a tide pool. She sinks into them, holds the gaze, and he reaches out to touch her jaw.

“I want to make you two match,” he says. “Alex is sky; I want to make you sea.”

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation. She undresses in a flurry, shamelessly baring her skin. John watches with a hunger, though not for the softness of her body - she becomes a canvas he’s aching to mark.

He loads up his brush with stormy sea green, the green of his eyes, the green of his voice, and strokes it down her stomach in a slow line.

It’s cool against her skin. The sea rushes in.


	7. 23. "Just once."

Hamilton knocks at the door of Jefferson’s office. Jefferson opens the door, sees him standing there all full of energy and useless words, says, “goodbye, Hamilton,” and shuts the door in his face.

So Hamilton does what literally  _ no one else _ would do in that situation: He knocks again. And again. And again. For a good fifteen minutes, while Jefferson is trying to get actual work done, like a normal human being. He has visions of Hamilton standing and knocking at that door forever.

Fifteen minutes of knocking is all Jefferson can take. It’s not that he’s worried about Hamilton’s hands - it’s that he knows Hamilton has fragile wrists, and if Hamilton injures himself, everyone around him suffers. Constant complaints of “ohh, my wrist,” and “I can’t write, my life is a shambles,” and “bring me death for I shall soon perish if I cannot write thousands of useless, vapid words a day, the English language is my lover since my wife left me.”

Jefferson opens the door again and quickly examines Hamilton’s hands. Neither of them appears to be broken or bleeding. One is holding a notebook - no surprise - which looks fairly battered. “Is that what you were knocking with?” he asks.

“You were ignoring me,” Hamilton says, as though it answers the question. (He has a habit of saying things that are vaguely related to the question, but don’t fully answer it - Jefferson never presses for clarification, but it drives him up the fucking wall. He writes about it every night in his diary.)

“Yes, and I was doing a great job of it, too. But you refuse to take a hint. What do you want?”

“I need you to lick my tongue,” Hamilton says.

“Excuse me?” Jefferson says.

“I said, I need -”

“No, I heard you the first time,” Jefferson says. “I’ll rephrase. What I actually mean is - what the fuck?”

“I’m writing,” Hamilton says, “and I need to know what it feels like when someone licks your tongue. So, I need you to lick my tongue.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“It has to do with slugs.”

“Okay, I just decided that I don’t want to know.” Jefferson glares. “I’m not licking your tongue.”

“Come  _ on,  _ Jefferson,” Hamilton says. “It’s not a big deal. I just brushed my teeth so it’s all clean. Just once. I promise.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “Open your mouth,” he says, and Hamilton obligingly opens and sticks his tongue out. He gathers together his courage, bends down to Hamilton’s height, and licks his tongue.

And then they’re kissing, Jefferson’s hands clenched on the lapels of Hamilton’s jacket, Hamilton making soft whimpering noises. They’re ferocious and ravenous and just when Jefferson is ready to draw this out into something a little more  _ involved _ , Hamilton pulls away, grinning.

“Exactly what I thought would happen,” he says, and he turns to leave.

Jefferson is left standing in the doorway of his office. “Asshole,” he mutters, and he slams the door.


	8. 24. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

Alex takes a deep breath and touches it.

“I can’t,” he says suddenly, flapping his hand like he’s put it in something disgusting that needs to be shaken away. “It hurts, I can’t do it, it’s gross.”

“Stop being a weenie,” John says from the couch.

“Be nice,” Eliza says. “This is hard for him.”

“He’s the one who decided to do it in the first place -”

“Eliza, you’re officially my favourite wife, because John is an asshole,” Alex declares, glaring at John.

“Wait, when did I go from boyfriend status to wife status? Like, thank you, that’s an honour, but -”

“Hush. The favourite wife is speaking,” Eliza says, cutting John off. “Thank you, Alex. You’re also _my_ favourite wife.”

Alex sticks his tongue out.

John sighs. “Okay, so he’s a wimp and you’re enabling him. Alex, just suck it up and do it.”

“I can’t.” Alex turns to Eliza and gives her big puppy dog eyes. “Can you do it for me?”

“I don’t know if -” Eliza shows her teeth in what was probably meant to be a smile but comes out more like a grimace. “I don’t think I can do it properly. What if I mess up?”

“Listen,” Alex says. “I need to do this. I _need_ to. But I can’t do it myself - I can’t see it, and it feels weird, and I gotta keep moving my hands and I’ll probably jerk and fuck it up. What if I drop it? What if I pull or twist too hard? What if I lose the place -”

“You’re overthinking it,” Eliza says.

“I need you to do it for me. Please.” Alex looks up at her, the barest hint of tears in his eyes, and says, “you’re the only one I trust to do this.”

“Okay,” Eliza sighs. “But I’m only doing this once, and then you have to learn to do it yourself.”

She takes him to the bathroom like she’s leading a condemned prisoner to the gallows, and John raises himself off the couch long enough to shout:

“All you’re doing is changing your earring!”


	9. 34. “If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed.”

The girl with the braids, the cute girl with perfectly winged eyeliner and wide hips and thick thighs, the girl with floral boots and zebra striped pants with the cuffs rolled up -

The girl has been staring for at least twenty minutes, and as cute as her pouty lips and her big eyes are, it’s kinda starting to make Angelica uncomfortable.

Maybe it’s not staring, exactly. At least, every time Angelica looks over, she turns her attention back to her book and makes a big show of reading - but when Angie just glances, just out of the corner of her eye, she sees her looking.

It’s half flattering, half weird. If it were coming from a boy, Angie would have already torn him to shreds - but it’s not, it’s coming from a girl with lips that look like they’d be equally at home shouting feminist theory or kissing.

Kissing where? Haha, who knows? Angie definitely doesn’t know. It’s not like she’s already imagined several places. She’s a good girl, with a pure mind and -

Fuck it. No she isn’t.

So she gathers up her laptop and her lunch and juggles everything into her bag. She catches sight of the girl jerking to attention, and is that a look of distress on her face? At the sight of Angie getting up to leave? Oh God, it’s too endearing - weird, but endearing. Mostly endearing.

Angie walks over, sits beside her on the couch, and says, “Angelica Schuyler. Angie.”

“Your shoes are killer,” the girl says in response. She scans up Angie’s body and adds, “oh my God, your makeup is amazing - how do you get your eyelashes so full? Is that natural?”

“Yes,” Angelica says, hoping her surprise doesn’t show on her face.

“I am so jealous - see, I was hoping you’d have some kind of secret amazing mascara, because fuck, I love thick eyelashes -”

“You haven’t told me your name,” Angie reminds her.

“Teddy,” she says, and the sight of her tongue popping against her teeth, the little smile on her lips - they make Angelica wonder exactly what else that mouth can do.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Angie says, but Teddy cuts her off.

“Can I take you out on a date?” She pauses, then adds, “sorry, I’m just assuming you’re sapphic, but - you know, a girl can dream, right?”

Angie lets the moment draw out, and this time Teddy is plain about it - she eyes Angelica up and down, pausing at her hips, pausing again at the neckline of her shirt, pausing at her jaw.

“Yes. Yes you can,” she says finally. “But there’s something you should know first.”

“Oh?”

Angie leans forward, putting one hand on Teddy’s thigh and pressing her lips to her ear. She knows she’ll leave lipstick all over it - but if she has things her way, that’s not the only place she’ll be leaving it.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” she whispers, “we won’t make it to a bed.”

And then she stands and turns to leave, her hips swaying just a little more than is strictly necessary.

“You coming?” she throws back over her shoulder.

Teddy grins wickedly. “Oh, please,” she says. “After you.”


	10. 37. “Wanna dance?”

Eliza swing dances. It’s not something she talks about a lot - there are other things that happen in her life, things she secretly suspects people would care far more about. It’s just a nice little escape for her once a week.

She goes to her class, she dances her best, and sometimes she stays for the social dance after the classes are over. There’s a mix of people who come to the social dances; some are brilliant, some are alright, and some - well, Eliza thinks, they just need a little more practice.

(Angie would say they’re awful. Eliza tries very hard not to be judgemental.)

She doesn’t expect much when she shows up to the social dances - sometimes she gets a good lead, sometimes she doesn’t. It’s rare that she stays all night.

But there’s one particular lead who shows up every so often. He always dresses like he’s walked straight out of a speakeasy - pinstripe trousers, suspenders, bow tie, beautiful white and forest green wingtip dance shoes - and he always does something new and fresh and exciting. He moves like he’s dancing over clouds. Eliza always watches him, tracking him through the dance floor; he crackles like lightning, draws her eyes.

Something else she notices: most boys tend to square off and become competitive when they dance together. This lead doesn’t. He seems just at ease dancing with another man as he does with a woman; he’s graceful and gracious and always, always, smiling - that infuriating smile he has with just a hint of smugness, enough to show but not enough to call him out on.

He’s here tonight. Her heart skips a beat.

(It’s not about him, she would explain, if her sisters ever asked. It’s about what he represents. He is the dance - he loses himself in it, and he’s beautiful. It. Not  _him_ \- the dancing. It’s beautiful.)

She forgets to track him from her seat in the corner, and then he’s there beside her, and something about him almost smells like electricity. There’s so much energy in the coiled muscle of his arms, something in his feet that won’t stay still. He offers her his hand.

“Wanna dance?” he asks.

She takes his hand and stands, suddenly far too aware of her feet and the way they’re moving. “I’m a beginner,” she says, and it’s half-apology.

“Nice to meet you, beginner,” he says. “I’m John. Just follow me. I won’t steer you wrong.”

And then he’s whirling her across the floor, and their feet are flying, and the lightning crackles deep in her chest, and the thunder in her heart completes it.


	11. candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the word "candles"

Aaron walks in to what looks like dozens of candles.

“Ten,” Thomas corrects when Aaron starts to lecture him. He laughs. “What, you don’t like them? I thought it would be romantic.”

“I’m not a fan of candles.” Aaron shuffles away a little, eyeing the candles like they’re about to bite him.

“Why? What’s your deal with them? They’re fine -”

“I set myself on fire once,” Aaron mumbles.

“What?” Thomas asks. “I don’t think I heard that right.”

“I set myself on fire once,” Aaron repeats. He grits his teeth.

“I - how?!”

“I was writing -”

“Writing,” Thomas echoes.

“Writing poetry,” says Aaron, “which necessitates candlelight -”

“Ah, of course. Electricity is for scrubs.”

“And I reached for more ink -”

“Instead of using a normal pen, like a normal guy,” Thomas says.

“And my sleeve caught. So.”

It takes a moment for Thomas to process that. It hits all at once, and then he’s bent double, barking laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Aaron protests.

“Were you hurt?” Thomas asks.

“Well, no, but -”

“Then it’s funny.” He giggles a little and then the laughter trails off and he pants a little, holding his stomach. “Oof. I needed that. Let’s blow them out, baby.”

Thomas pours them each a glass of wine and he and Aaron blow the candles out together. As smoke trails from the last extinguished wick, Aaron settles next to Thomas on the sofa, snuggling up under his arm.

He giggles a little and Thomas kisses his head and asks, “what?”

“I guess it is funny,” Aaron admits. “A little.”

“A little,” Thomas agrees. “You’re a fucking nerd.”


	12. trembling hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the words "trembling hands"

“Alex,” Aaron says.  
  
“Yeah.” Alex is staring into his eyes, just as antagonistic as ever.  
  
“You’re not helping -”  
  
“Just do it,” says Alex, and then he grins. “Come on - you’re always waiting for life to just _happen_ to you. Stop waiting. What’s the worst that could happen?”  
  
There are so many things, so many _worst_ things, that could happen - but he supposes, now that he’s admitted his feelings, the _worst_ worst is already a distant worry, something that could have come to pass and never did. So what, really, is there to worry about now?  
  
He takes Alexander’s face in his trembling hands, fingertips stroking the lines of his jaw, leans forward, and kisses him.  
  
The tremors in his hands don’t stop. They melt together; Alex puts his hands on Aaron’s hips and pulls him close and just like that, Aaron knows he’s found the one place with room to breathe.  
  
Alex breaks first. He pulls back, grinning that irritating lopsided grin, and says, “see? I told you. Nothing to be afraid of.”  
  
And Aaron puts those trembling hands on Alex’s chest and kisses him again.


	13. filthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the word "filthy"

“No,” says Gil. “Absolutely not.”

“He’s shivering,” says John.

“I’m really fuckin cold, dude,” Herc complains.

“You’re dripping mud. You’re not coming inside, and that’s final,” Gil says.

“It’s pouring out here!” Hercules shivers violently, slapping his arms in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Please, Gil, let me come in, I’ll run to the bathroom -”

“I’ll get you a towel. You can come in when you aren’t filthy.”

John shoves Gil aside and says, “nah, he’s freezing. Go run him a bath. C’mere, teddy bear, let me warm you up. How’d you get so muddy?”

Herc kicks off his runners and allows John to strip his t shirt and shorts off him. “Dude, never run in the rain. You know the shoulder on the road out there, where it’s all grassy and shit? I slipped and fell into the ditch. I’m freezing.”

“Bath is ready,” Gil calls from the bathroom. John rubs Herc’s back as they half-jog to the bathroom, where Gil waits, sitting beside a steaming tub full of bubbles.

“Dude,” says Herc, and he tears up.

“Just get in,” groans Gil. Herc wriggles out of his boxers and socks and slips into the tub. He heaves a heavy sigh of contentment.

John perches on the edge of the tub and scoops water in his palms to pour it over Herc’s shoulders, then lathers up a washcloth and starts gently scrubbing the mud away. Gil takes it upon himself to gently wash some of the mud off of Herc’s face.

“Thanks, guys,” Herc murmurs, leaning back into John’s touch.

“The next time you get that filthy, I’m definitely not letting you in the house,” says Gil.

“Yes, you are,” says John, flicking water at him. “Or I’ll shove you in a mud puddle too.”


	14. 49. nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the word "nightfall"

Nightfall smells like grass and dew and darkness, something indescribable and sweet. Eliza giggles a little; Alexander hushes her.

“We don’t want to get caught,” he whispers.

“He won’t wake,” she says. “He’s a heavy sleeper. If I know my father, he’ll be abed well past dawn, come hell or high water. Angie and I used to do this all the time.”

Alexander raises his eyebrows. “The impropriety, my dear Mrs Hamilton.”

“Hush, you.” She gathers her nightgown in one hand to keep it from tangling around her legs and trips lightly down the stairs.

“Consider - perhaps there’s more impropriety waiting.” Alexander does his best to go lightly down the stairs as well, but he’s considerably heavier on his feet and winds up making far more noise than he’d like.

“Oh?” The door creaks as it’s opened. “What sort of impropriety, my dear?”

“Well, you see, there’s a certain soldier awaiting us -”

Eliza nearly shrieks with delight. She pulls the door to behind them and then she’s off running across the fields towards the little lake on her father’s grounds. It’s all Alexander can do to keep up with her; her feet are flying, and he marvels at her ability to run across the dewy grass at that speed without slipping.

She, of course, reaches the shore first, where John Laurens sits, his feet in the water. He looks up to greet Eliza and is immediately bowled over as she hurls herself into his lap, covering his face in kisses and breathing hard from her sprint.

“John, my dearest, I’ve missed you so much,” she whispers. She pulls back to take him in; he’s sitting in just his breeches, his shirt and stockings and waistcoat all discarded further up on the sand. His dear freckles, bless them, look like stars on his skin under the light of the full moon.

“And I you, Mrs Hamilton,” he says.

“None of that silliness. You’ll call me by my proper name,” she orders, and Alexander looks at her in adoration and wonder.

“I do love it when you take charge,” he murmurs.

Eliza shucks her nightgown, and Alexander follows suit, as does John. Soon, the three of them are bare and tiptoeing into the water together.

“Enough to shrink your -”

“You watch your tongue, John Laurens,” Eliza scolds, and John grins at her, not at all abashed.

“Such language. Remnants of the war,” says Alexander airily.

He’s the first in all the way, and he immediately sets about scooping handfuls of water and tossing them at the two people he loves most in the world. The both of them protest until John takes it upon himself to lunge at Alex and push his head under. When Alexander surfaces, he’s dripping water and spitting, and Eliza is doubled over with laughter.

“This was a terrible idea, and I blame it all on you,” he says to her. She takes her time swimming over to him in order to kiss first him, then John, and then to pull the both of them close enough that she can kiss them both at the same time.

“Was it, though, husband?” she murmurs. “Or was it a spectacular idea?”

And Alexander has to agree it was.


	15. 13. too loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the words "too loud"

The sound of the TV is suddenly far too much and everything crashes in, alarms blaring and whooping, and suddenly he realizes it’s not an alarm it’s his own voice ripping from his throat and he has no recollection of starting the noise and it doesn’t seem to be finishing and it  _ hurts  _ in his throat in his chest in his ears and there’s pressure

suddenly

pressure on his chest over his heart and everythings seems

a little

slower.

“Breathe,” says James, “I’m here. It’s me. Feel this. This is where you are. Feel the pressure, Thomas.”

“Noise,” Thomas says, and then it starts to repeat, an endless loop. “Noise noise noise noise noise noise noise noise -”

James grabs the remote and hits mute. Suddenly, Thomas can breathe.

“Too loud,” he says. He’s crying. When did he start crying?

“I’m sorry, honey,” says James. “Want kisses?”

Too much. “Nnn.”

“Want me to lay on you?”

“Mm.” Full body pressure sounds perfect. It sounds manageable.

James leans forward and nuzzles against Thomas’s neck. He’s put on a little weight, between the new meds and the new diet, and he feels perfect, just heavy enough to give Thomas what he needs.

Eternity passes. Slowly, he comes back to himself. “Too much volume,” he mumbles. His mouth feels like it’s full of marbles and cotton. “It hurt.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot I’d had the volume on. I’ll keep it on mute from now on, okay? Until you say it’s okay to turn it up.”

“Okay,” says Thomas. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Want kisses.”

James sits up just enough to kiss Thomas’s face. “How many kisses?” he asks, his lips against the bridge of Thomas’s nose.

“Billion,” says Thomas. “Two billion.”

“I think that’s doable. Need anything else?”

“Sorry,” Thomas says.

“You didn’t do a single thing wrong,” says James. “I love you tons.”

“Love you,” says Thomas. “No more sounds, please.”

James nods. Thomas closes his eyes, basking in the silence. It feels good just to sit still and feel the silence spread through his bones, hollowing them, making them featherlight and weightless. He has bird bones. He has white noise in his brain. It’s soft, like angora, like cloud.

He hums, just for a moment, and the sound doesn’t hurt.


	16. shirt chewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Consider... thomas the autism.. chewing on James' shirt collar,,,, when they cuddle,,,

Thomas pulls away guiltily. “Sorry,” he says.

“For what?” James asks.

Thomas hums. “I was doing it again.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Chewing?”

“Yeah,” says Thomas.

“And your chewy necklace isn’t doing anything for you?”

“It’s a different texture,” Thomas explains. “I like your shirt. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” says James.

“But -”

James pauses the documentary playing on their old, beat up TV and gets up off the bed to rummage through his drawers. He comes across one of his pajama t-shirts, an old one with a stretched collar, and changes into that one before laying down again. “Come here,” he says. Thomas snuggles up and lays his head on James’s shoulder.

“Why the change?” he asks.

James grins. “Chew away,” he says. 

Thomas nibbles a little at first, just to judge James’s reaction. Before long, though, he’s got the shirt collar so far in his mouth he’s working at it with his molars, a deep, satisfying chew that makes him feel contained and quiet. It’s the same reassuring bordered feeling he gets from snuggling James under their weighted blanket, or from flapping until his wrists feel like they’ll come apart.

“Thanks,” he mumbles around the fabric.

“Nothing to thank me for,” says James. “Shut up and watch the movie.”


	17. senseless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the word "senseless"

Alexander imagines John’s voice, imagines his reckless boy scolding him, imagines the cadence and tone and pitch as John says  _ senseless, Alexander, you absolute fool, you know better - _

“I do, I know better,” Alexander whispers, balling his hands into fists so tight his nails dig into the tender skin of his palms. There are no callouses on the heels of his palms; his nails dig in so deep they draw blood. It isn’t much, just thin crescents tinged red, but it’s enough to startle him out of his thoughts.

His reckless boy - Alexander muses on him, the clean lines of his shoulders, the lean muscling of his body, the way his hips move when he walks. He knows it’s far too telling to let his gaze linger too long. He knows they can’t come together except under cover of darkness in distant fields, or behind locked doors in the small hours of the morning. Anything else is foolish, anything else is  _ dangerous,  _ but he can’t resist. He’s hungry and John sates him.

He forces his hands to relax. He forces himself to breathe.

And he  _ knows  _ he shouldn’t but he whirls around and storms into the room where John sits idly scribbling at the desk, storms in and grabs his reckless boy by the cravat and pulls him forward and  _ kisses  _ him, kisses him until there’s nothing lips teeth tongue and the world spins silver-white and ethereal.

“Senseless,” John murmurs against his lips, and Alexander just smiles.


End file.
